Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington always said that weddings were easy.
People, on the other hand, were a disaster.
She thought it, she didn’t say it, as she crossed the Belle Époque Ballroom of the Ashbourne House Hotel in London with an earpiece pressed to her ear, a folder in one hand, and the kind of dangerous calm that only comes after ten years of taming hysterical millionaires on three continents.
—Damage report —she murmured, without stopping.
—A waiter broke a Murano crystal glass at the groomsmen’s table. Bridesmaid number three is crying in the bathroom. The groom’s mother is asking if it’s still possible to change the seating chart —Kate replied, her voice icy through the radio.
Penelope dodged a photographer who nearly ran her over.
—The wedding starts in thirty-five minutes, Kate.
—I know —Kate said—. I also know that if the groom’s mother touches that seating chart again, I’m hiding her in the basement.
—Kate —Edwina’s soft reprimand sounded through the earpiece.
—Figuratively —Kate added.
Penelope barely smiled.
In another life, she might be sweating, yelling, crying, wondering why she had chosen a career where people argued for thirty minutes about the exact shade of white for napkins.
In this life, she was Penelope Featherington, creative director of Maison de Lune Events, the most sought-after luxury wedding planning firm among people who measured love in carats, followers, and headlines.
Chaos was just another word for “before Penelope arrived.”
—Floral update —Penelope asked, turning down the corridor that led to the hanging garden overlooking the harbor.
—The florist lives —Kate answered—. Barely. I found him trying to put blue hydrangeas into the altar arrangements.
—Blue hydrangeas go on the cocktail terrace, not on the altar —Penelope said almost automatically.
—Exactly what I told him before threatening to rip off his thumbs —Kate replied—. The metaphorical ones, of course.
—He doesn’t have metaphorical thumbs, Kate —Edwina interjected, amused—. But he does have feelings.
Penelope pushed open the garden door and paused for a second.
Flowers, at least, obeyed.
Cream and peach roses, perfect peonies, columns of eucalyptus, the wedding arch covered with tiny lights like trapped fireflies facing the hotel’s garden.
The ceremony would be at sunset, the sun filtering through the pergolas and reflecting off the windows as if the entire place had been designed for Instagram. Because, in fact, it had.
—If anyone moves another peony —Penelope said out loud without looking at anyone in particular— I swear I will cancel the wedding.
An intern frozen with scissors in hand stared at her with huge eyes.
—It’s a joke —Penelope added, smiling—. More or less.
The intern exhaled.
—Edwina, status of the bride? —Penelope asked, adjusting her earpiece.
—Hysteria level: controlled. I’m repositioning her veil —Edwina replied with patient calm—. She remembered she’s in love, which helps quite a lot.
—And the groom? —Penelope asked.
—In five minutes he’ll be ready —Edwina answered—. Right now he’s trying to give an improvised speech to his friends about the “true meaning of commitment.”
—Oh no —Penelope murmured.
—Oh yes —Kate said—. I have a bet with the photographer about how many times he’ll say “soulmate.”
Penelope suppressed a laugh.
Maison de Lune didn’t just design weddings: it designed stories. Every couple left with a carefully constructed narrative, a love packaged in lights, flowers, and playlists curated to the millimeter.
She was, as the press liked to say, “the woman who designed happy endings.”
Once, someone asked if that wasn’t cynical. If it wasn’t cruel to make a living decorating a dream that statistically had a strong chance of breaking in ten years.
Penelope wasn’t cynical.
She loved weddings.
She believed in love.
She had simply stopped believing it would happen to her.
***
The banquet hall sat at that precise point between “perfect” and “could explode at any moment.”
Waiters finished placing glasses, the DJ tested sound, an aunt of the bride argued with another guest about whether protocol allowed wearing white “if it was very light beige.”
—Confirmation: the mother-in-law is still alive —Kate reported quietly—. And still trying to move her friends’ table closer to the main table.
—No tables move —Penelope said—. Not one chair. Not one place card. The seating chart is a sacred contract.
From experience she knew the seating chart was the true battlefield of any wedding.
People could tolerate a wrong flower, a slightly off song.
But seating them at the “wrong table” meant war.
She inhaled, placed the folder on a side table, and mentally reviewed her list for the day:
- Ceremony: on time.
- Bride: contained.
- Groom: philosophical but manageable.
- Florist: under Kate’s surveillance.
- Edwina: acting as a professional fairy godmother.
—Time until the procession —Penelope asked.
—Twenty-eight minutes —Kate replied—. Which, in wedding time, is the same as saying: we still have thirty things to solve.
Penelope glanced at the huge window overlooking the gardens. The sky was turning orange and violet.
Perfect.
—Edwina, in ten minutes we start seating guests —she said—. Kate, I want you to check the aisle lighting one more time. I don’t want shadows on the Vera Wang when she walks.
—Understood, boss —Kate answered.
—Affirmative —Edwina said—. And by the way, Pen, the bride asked again if you think she’ll cry too much.
Penelope smiled.
—Tell her the makeup is designed to survive a hurricane of emotions —she said—. And that if she doesn’t cry, the wedding is poorly scripted.
Edwina laughed on the other end.
—I won’t tell her that. But I’ll think it.
Penelope began walking toward the bridal suite.
As she crossed the hotel lobby, several guests looked at her curiously.
They recognized her face.
Not so much from private events as from that wedding in Dubai, the one where the sheikh had decided to marry in the middle of the desert with a tent that looked like a palace and a parade of illuminated camels. The video of the fireworks synchronized with a pop ballad had gathered millions of views.
Since then, Maison de Lune had become synonymous with “elegant excess.”
She was the woman people called when they wanted their love to trend.
Penelope knocked on the suite door.
—May I? —she asked, poking her head inside.
The bride, wrapped in layers and layers of tulle and silk, sat in front of the mirror while Edwina adjusted the veil with delicate hands.
The bride’s eyes were bright, but dry. For now.
—Penelope —she exclaimed—. Tell me everything is okay.
Penelope approached slowly, feeling that familiar pinch in her chest that always appeared just before a ceremony.
A mixture of pride and nostalgia for something she had never had.
—Everything is perfect —she said without hesitation—. The arch looks like something out of a movie, the guests are already finding their seats, and the groom is mentally rehearsing how not to faint.
The bride let out a nervous giggle.
—He’s not going to faint —she replied—. Right?
—Not on my watch —Penelope said.
Edwina smiled through the mirror.
Where Penelope was precision and control, Edwina was pure charm.
Together they could convince anyone that reality would cooperate with their plans.
—Ready to get married? —Penelope asked more softly.
The bride looked at herself in the mirror, then at Penelope.
—I’m ready to marry him —she answered quietly—. The part about walking in front of a hundred people and not tripping is… secondary.
Penelope looked at herself in the reflection: the deep green dress perfectly tailored, hair pinned with precision, lips in a discreet shade.
Always impeccable.
Always just outside the frame.
—You only have to walk toward him —she said with a genuine smile—. We organized the rest.
The bride breathed deeply, calming down.
—How do you do this? —she asked—. Make everything look easy.
Penelope shrugged lightly.
—Because weddings are easy —she said—. Love is the complicated part.
Edwina lowered her gaze for a moment.
She knew that line wasn’t just clever marketing.
It was the philosophy that kept Penelope firmly outside her own story.
***
When the music started and the garden doors opened, Penelope took her place to the side, where she always stood.
From there she could see everything: the flower-covered arch, the lit aisle, guests standing, the bride walking steadily while sunset light wrapped around her.
It was her favorite place in the world: the crack between reality and a fairy tale.
For a second, she allowed herself to feel.
Not as creative director.
Not as the woman who had orchestrated every detail.
But as the girl who, years earlier, played wedding in the Bridgertons’ garden with old curtains as a veil and stolen flowers as a bouquet.
She had been eight.
Colin, eleven.
He wore a badly tied tie and a huge smile.
“I now declare you husband of… whoever wants to marry you today,” Eloise had said solemnly while holding a book upside down.
Everyone had laughed.
Penelope had looked at Colin and thought, with the ridiculous certainty of a child, that no one in the world smiled like him.
The officiant’s voice pulled her back to the present.
—…and may this union be as strong as the love we celebrate today.
The bride reached the end of the aisle.
The groom looked at her as if he had just seen sunrise for the first time.
Penelope, out of habit, searched for the slightest sign of doubt, anxiety, or discomfort.
Nothing.
They were, at least on that day, the perfect couple.
And Penelope, as always, was the invisible author of the stage.
***
Chaos didn’t disappear with the “I do.”
It simply changed shape.
After the ceremony, the cocktail hour on the terrace brought a new catalogue of crises: a guest who had brought a plus-one not included in the seating chart, a great-aunt insisting the music was “too modern,” and a group of young people who believed the photobooth was a confession booth.
—Important update —Kate said, approaching with a tablet—. The groom’s cousin just proposed to his girlfriend in the middle of the cocktail hour. Got on one knee between the canapés.
Penelope closed her eyes for a moment.
—Were there applause?
—There were screams —Kate replied—. And the girlfriend crying. And the bride’s mother demanding they be thrown out because “you don’t steal attention at someone else’s wedding.”
Penelope opened her eyes.
—Edwina, diplomatic situation?
—I’m congratulating the couple on their engagement —Edwina said from the other side of the terrace—. And explaining, with all the sweetness in the world, that tonight is about celebrating others and that their official announcement can be tomorrow. With photos. And champagne. Which we will happily organize.
—At double the fee —Kate added.
—At double the fee —Edwina repeated with a smile.
Penelope couldn’t help laughing.
—Perfect. Kate, I need you to watch the bride’s mother. If she tries to push someone into the pool, I want to know before the dress becomes an aquatic tragedy.
Kate nodded.
—And by the way —she added— the DJ is asking if the couple wants to do the surprise dance they rehearsed.
Penelope checked her watch.
—Tell him to wait fifteen minutes —she said—. I need the white wine debate to end first. I don’t want glass accidents during the dance.
It was a choreographed dance; she had watched them rehearse the night before.
It was supposed to “show their story”: they started shy, loosened up, ended with a dramatic spin and a long kiss.
The kind of video social media devoured.
Sometimes, when she watched all those couples narrate their love with such certainty, she wondered what her story might have been if it hadn’t shattered before it began.
But that was a reflection for later.
Right now she had timing to respect and a mother-in-law to neutralize.
***
The night moved forward through toasts, laughter, sincere tears, and tears caused by alcohol.
The surprise dance was a success.
Fairy lights and candles made everything look like a slightly filtered dream.
The bride’s father cried three times. The bride’s mother cried once, but because of the bar bill.
Penelope allowed herself a moment on the terrace, leaning on the railing and watching the city lights in the distance.
The air was cooler there.
Inside, the band played an acoustic version of a pop song she knew far too well.
—Wedding number… —she thought out loud— one hundred thirty-two?
—One hundred thirty-four if we count the sheikh’s as three —Kate said, appearing beside her with two glasses of sparkling water.
Penelope smiled tiredly.
—Thanks.
—You have the look —Kate said.
—Which look?
—That mix of “we achieved the impossible again” and “maybe I should move to another country and grow lavender.”
Penelope laughed softly.
—Lavender doesn’t argue about centerpieces —she said—. That would be an interesting change.
—Yes, but it also doesn’t pay multimillion-dollar bills —Kate replied—. Imagine, Pen. No infinite budgets, no demanding brides, no mothers-in-law willing to kill for a chair closer to the altar. What would we do?
Penelope shrugged.
—I suppose we’d sleep —she added finally.
Kate made a face.
—What a revolutionary concept.
Edwina approached with a gentle laugh, resting her elbows on the terrace railing.
—Before you plan your agricultural retirement, we should talk about the next client.
Penelope closed her eyes for a second.
—Didn’t we agree on a very clear rule about not mentioning new clients before we’ve slept?
—Yes —Kate said—. But this family has been trying to meet with you for three weeks.
That made her open one eye.
—Three weeks?
Edwina nodded.
—The bride’s name is Amira Sinclair.
Penelope frowned slightly, searching her memory.
—Sinclair… finance?
—Technology —Kate said—. Her father sold half his company two years ago and now believes every social event must be a cinematic experience.
Penelope sighed slowly.
—That usually means fireworks where fireworks should not exist.
—He already asked for them —Kate confirmed.
—Reception?
—Ceremony.
Penelope closed her eyes again.
—Of course he did.
Edwina leaned forward, amused.
—In his defense, Amira seems charming.
—They always say that —Penelope murmured.
—No, really —Edwina insisted—. We had a brief video call. She’s funny. Very… luminous.
Kate raised an eyebrow.
—She also said she’s watched the sheikh’s wedding video in Dubai at least twenty times.
Penelope covered her face with one hand.
—That video will haunt us for the rest of our lives.
—It has eighty million views —Kate said.
—Exactly my point.
Edwina took out her phone.
—The meeting is tomorrow morning.
Penelope opened her eyes.
—Tomorrow?
—Yes.
—Edwina.
—Yes.
—We just finished a wedding.
—I know.
—It’s almost three in the morning.
—I also know.
Kate took a sip of sparkling water.
—If it helps, the bride’s father said something quite memorable during the call.
Penelope sighed.
—I’m afraid to ask.
Kate smiled.
—He said he wants a wedding his friends will remember for twenty years.
Penelope tilted her head.
—That’s fairly standard.
Kate shook her head.
—No, no. Then he added: “ideally visible from space.”
Penelope slowly opened her eyes.
—Of course he did.
Edwina laughed.
—I think he was just being dramatic.
Kate raised the tablet.
—He also asked if it was technically possible to synchronize fireworks with the exact moment the bride says “I do.”
Penelope inhaled deeply.
—No.
—That’s exactly what I told him —Kate replied.
—And?
—He said we would discuss it tomorrow.
Penelope looked at the London night sky full of lights and reflections.
—Fine —she said finally—. Tomorrow we’ll see the Sinclairs.
Kate tilted her head.
—I knew you’d say that.
—Of course you did.
Edwina smiled softly.
—Besides… I think you’ll like them.
Penelope didn’t respond.
She had learned over the years that every new couple arrived with their own version of love.
Some were fragile.
Others spectacular.
But all of them, without exception, were convinced their story would be different.
Penelope always hoped they were right.
She always hoped.
Even if she no longer did for herself.
***
The presentation room at Maison de Lune Events was designed to impress.
Large windows let the morning light flood in.
On the central table lay boards with fabrics, flowers, sketches of floral arches, and small models of centerpieces.
Everything smelled faintly of peonies.
Penelope was adjusting the order of the folders when Edwina appeared with a diplomatic smile that meant exactly one thing.
The clients are here.
—They’ve arrived —she announced.
Penelope adjusted her earpiece even though she didn’t need it indoors.
—Perfect.
Kate, who was reviewing the schedule on a tablet, looked up.
—Quick reminder —she said—. The bride’s father has already requested a jazz band, fireworks, and a horse-drawn carriage.
—Not in that order —Edwina clarified.
Kate sighed.
—I’m ready for chaos.
Penelope barely smiled.
—Chaos is manageable.
Kate murmured:
—That’s what everyone says before a guest tries to release doves inside a church.
The door opened.
Amira Sinclair entered first.
Tall, elegant, with a luminous energy that made the room feel slightly brighter.
Her parents followed.
Mr. Sinclair walked as if he were already in the middle of the wedding.
—Ladies! —he announced enthusiastically—. Allow me to say my wife and I are absolutely delighted to be here.
Mrs. Sinclair smiled elegantly.
—My husband has been talking about this meeting for three days.
—Four —he corrected.
Edwina stepped forward with impeccable warmth.
—Welcome. It’s a pleasure to have you here.
Penelope extended her hand with her perfect professional smile.
—I’m Penelope Featherington.
Mr. Sinclair shook her hand enthusiastically.
—The famous Penelope Featherington.
Penelope inclined her head with calculated modesty.
—We try to make good weddings.
—Good! —he repeated—. My dear Miss Featherington, my daughter deserves a wedding so spectacular that my friends talk about it for twenty years.
Kate murmured under her breath:
—Told you.
Amira laughed.
—Please ignore my father. He’s convinced the wedding must be visible from space.
—Not a bad idea —he said.
Everyone sat.
Penelope opened the main folder.
—Today we’ll review the general concept of the event.
Edwina moved the first boards.
—We’re thinking of a sunset garden ceremony.
Kate rotated a model of the venue.
—With the reception in the greenhouse.
Mrs. Sinclair sighed.
—How beautiful.
Amira rested her chin in her hand.
—My fiancé will love it.
Penelope turned the page in the folder.
—Perfect. Now we’ll review some personal details about the groom to integrate elements of your story.
The door opened behind them.
—Sorry for being late.
The voice was warm.
Familiar.
Penelope looked up.
And suddenly the world stopped.
Penelope didn’t breathe.
She didn’t move.
For ten years she had imagined many versions of that moment.
In airports.
In hotel rooms.
In cities where no one knew how to pronounce her last name correctly.
In all those versions she knew exactly what she would say.
In none of them had she considered the possibility of going completely blank.
Colin Bridgerton stood in the doorway.
Taller than she remembered.
Broader shoulders.
Hair slightly darker, as if the sun from other countries had decided to stay trapped there.
But the smile…
The smile was exactly the same.
The same one she had seen a thousand times when they were children.
The same one that had broken her heart at eighteen.
Colin stopped when he saw her.
Recognition was immediate.
His eyes widened slightly.
—Pe—
Penelope spoke before he could finish.
—A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bridgerton.
Silence.
Kate slowly lifted her gaze from her tablet.
Edwina blinked.
Mr. Sinclair, completely unaware of the emotional earthquake that had just taken place in the middle of his meeting, stood up enthusiastically.
—There’s the groom!
He clapped Colin on the back as if he had raised him himself.
—You’re just in time, my boy. We were talking about making history.
Colin didn’t take his eyes off Penelope.
—Were you?
Amira smiled brightly.
—Colin, you’re arriving right at the best part. Penelope was explaining the concept for the ceremony.
Penelope turned a page in the folder with almost supernatural calm.
—A sunset garden ceremony —she said professionally—. Warm lighting, flowers in cream and peach tones, and a light floral arch that allows natural light to do most of the work.
Colin kept staring at her.
As if trying to understand something impossible.
—It sounds… —he said slowly— exactly like something I would like.
Kate observed the exchange with clinical clarity.
Interesting.
Amira leaned toward Colin enthusiastically.
—Dad wants fireworks during the ceremony.
—Not during the ceremony —Penelope intervened automatically and gently.
Mr. Sinclair raised a hand.
—Technically I didn’t say during the ceremony.
Kate murmured:
—He thought it.
Mr. Sinclair heard her.
—Yes, well, I did think it.
Mrs. Sinclair sighed patiently.
—Darling, remember that Penelope is the expert.
—Of course she is —he replied quickly—. That’s precisely why we hired her.
He turned to Penelope with complete sincerity.
—The sheikh’s wedding in Dubai.
Penelope blinked.
—Pardon?
—My wife saw the video on TikTok.
Mrs. Sinclair raised a hand.
—In my defense, it appeared on my page three times in a row.
Kate crossed her arms.
—Eighty million views.
—Eighty-two now —Mr. Sinclair corrected proudly.
Amira laughed.
—Dad is convinced you can do anything.
Penelope inclined her head slightly.
—We create memorable weddings.
Mr. Sinclair smiled broadly.
—Exactly what we need.
Colin finally spoke.
—Yes.
He was still looking at her.
—You’ve always been good at that.
Penelope didn’t react.
Not an extra blink.
Not a gesture.
Kate felt that something very interesting was happening in front of her.
Amira flipped through one of the boards.
—This is gorgeous.
Colin stepped closer to the table.
—May I?
Penelope slid the board toward him.
—Of course.
Their fingers almost touched.
Almost.
Colin withdrew his hand first.
—This —he said pointing to the design— reminds me of a wedding I saw in Tuscany.
Penelope lifted her gaze slightly.
—We worked there last year.
—I imagined.
Amira rested her elbow on the table.
—Colin travels a lot.
Mr. Sinclair snorted.
—He travels so much I thought he’d marry a suitcase.
Colin smiled.
—I considered it.
Amira rolled her eyes affectionately.
—He’s a chef.
Kate lifted her head.
—Chef?
—Well —Colin said— something like that.
Amira intervened.
—He travels around the world documenting culinary experiences.
Mr. Sinclair added:
—He has a show.
Kate was now genuinely interested.
—That explains the paella.
Colin looked at her.
—Excuse me?
Kate pointed to the board.
—The outdoor reception. That kind of long table calls for paella.
Colin smiled slowly.
—Exactly what I was thinking.
Penelope closed the folder.
—Then we are agreed on the general concept.
Amira nodded happily.
—I love it.
Mr. Sinclair clapped his hands.
—Magnificent. A spectacular wedding.
He looked at Penelope.
—Just one more question.
Penelope waited.
—How difficult would it be… hypothetically…
—Yes.
—…to make the couple’s exit visible from space?
Kate dropped her head back.
Edwina covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
Amira murmured:
—Dad…
Penelope held the man’s gaze for two seconds.
Then she said, perfectly serious:
It depends on the budget.